Jeremy Messersmith: The Dungeon Master

For many, Dungeons & Dragons still brings to mind a club of oily adolescents gathered around game boards in their parents' basements. This stereotype is not only dated, but it's strangely intimidating to people who are actually curious about D&D. I'd always wanted to give the role-playing game a try, but I was under the impression that I would have to infiltrate some sort of secret nerd circle. ¶ Fortunately, I have an in with a super-nerd: A friend, science fiction writer Rob Callahan, is a bit of a local nerd icon. So when I mention my interest, he drops a bomb on me: He is in a weekly game of D&D with crushworthy local musician Jeremy Messersmith. And I'm invited to come and play.

Over the past several years, Jeremy has become the indie-pop darling of the Twin Cities. Rob is no slouch, either, recently named a literary guest of honor for the upcoming 2012 MarsCon. With these two gentlemen in attendance, there's no doubt in my mind that this is the coolest D&D game in town. Perhaps the universe.

When I express my desire to write a story about the experience for Vita.mn, with photos, Rob brings my proposal to the group. It is met with hesitation. Though Rob's and Jeremy's careers regularly put them in the spotlight, the other players in the group value their anonymity, and my proposal is not accepted with immediate enthusiasm. As deliberation continues, I recognize that familiar knot of pending rejection in the pit of my stomach. But finally, an e-mail arrives inviting me to their next gathering as a guest, as long as I promise not to use the other players' real names.

Since I don't know how the game actually works, I enlist my husband as a tutor. He happens to have a few D&D booklets handy, so he reads me a tale of a goblin robbery gone wrong. It's a Choose Your Own Adventure-style experience, and each decision I make shapes my character. Next, he assigns me a worksheet which will determine my skills and their corresponding levels. For example, if I want a high score for diplomacy, I would have to balance that out with low points in another category. I eventually settle on a human War Priest of the Storm Domain that I name Freja, only to discover later that I have inadvertently made a character almost identical to Rob's.

As I panic over starting my character from scratch, my husband briefs me on the rest of the game. The Dungeon Master drives the story, either an original tale or a quest out of a D&D manual. As the adventure progresses, players make decisions that shape their characters' journey. Their choices are presented to the Dungeon Master, who determines how many points are needed for players to make their moves successfully. For example, if I choose to steal a wagon, the Dungeon Master could require a streetwise score of 20 or higher. If my character only had six streetwise points, I would have to roll a 20-sided die and land at least a 14.

Before the meeting, I frantically review the rules and rebuild Freja, with the help of Jeremy's online character builder. (He has a subscription. It is worth it.) When I arrive at the home of two fellow guild members, my palms are sweating. What if I kill a cohort with friendly fire? What if I slow everyone down? But it's too late to back out. I will have to play, and I will have to be awesome.

Jeremy, the Dungeon Master, sits at the head of the table with a laptop full of sound effects. My nerves are still humming. I place my character on the board, and Jeremy picks up right where this merry band of travelers left off last week.

As we depart, the others notice me tagging along, which is unacceptable. A character can't appear without explanation; that wouldn't be realistic. I take my half-orc piece off the board and curse myself for already making a mistake. To my relief, Jeremy informs me that my character is enjoying an ale at the Mallard Inn Pub in a nearby village that is oppressed by thugs. I settle in with a mug of mead and practice my glower as I wait for the party to arrive.

The travelers arrive at the tavern for pints of ale and a side of information. But before they can commiserate with the townspeople, four belligerent guards stumble into the pub, reeking of whiskey and corruption. The characters are faced with two choices: Get into a bar fight or continue their quest. Osmo and Ariadne vote to leave the bar, but Solera is incensed by the guards' treatment of the serving wenches, and I catch a flash of bloodlust in Enna's eyes. Almost in unison, Enna and Solera announce, "I'd get in a bar fight." As they debate, Jeremy plays what is supposed to sound like the background chatter of a busy social establishment, but sounds more like demented children laughing. It's not his best sound effect.

After thoughtful consideration, the party agrees that since this is my first game, I should see some action. By way of introduction, I break a bottle of alcohol on the bar, light it on fire, then jump up into the flames, yelling: "My name is Freja! I suspect I am part giant!" "Coyote Ugly" jokes are made.

The brawl has a rough start. As Jeremy blasts the "Benny Hill" theme song, Solera, a dragonborn (which, according to the Internet, is a draconic humanoid) blows dragon breath, but only manages a puff of fire, barely singeing the eyebrows of a sexist guard. Osmo throws Gruulf the dwarf at another guard, but the attack does little damage. As the battle continues, I learn that seasoned players often refer to critical hits as "crits." We sustain a lot of crits.

It's my turn again. The pressure's on, but I'm still on an overconfident high from my dramatic introduction. I stick with what's worked for me so far: setting things on fire. I request to light a Molotov cocktail, but Jeremy informs me that I'll need a high streetwise score to make that happen. I blow on my die for luck, a cocky rookie. But as soon as I roll, I know it's no good. Out of all 20 sides, it comes to rest on 3. The explosive sputters out. I throw the flameless bottle, but a guard bats it aside. It is my first taste of failure, and it's a bitter brew.

Due to the cramped quarters, most of us are unable to wield our weapons. Since I'm standing on the bar and have more room, I ask the Dungeon Master if I can draw my sword, light it on fire, and throw it at a nearby guard. Jeremy shakes his head. There are too many things in the way: "antlers and other manly decorating things," he says. I ask if I can tear down a pair of antlers, douse them with alcohol and flame, and throw them at the guard. Yes, but I'll need a streetwise score of 20. My character only has a streetwise score of 3, so I'll need a 17 or higher. I take a deep breath. I've been holding the die so tightly that it's warmed to my skin. I close my eyes and roll ... 18! I've impaled the guard with the antlers and set him ablaze! This must be how people who are good at sports feel all the time. "You should have said, 'Buck up,'" Osmo deadpans.

All of the guards have expired, except the one who was stabbed in the crotch. (Everyone winces again.) To everyone's surprise, Elwin the Objective approaches the suffering man, holds out his hands, and heals him. When the guard can stand, Elwin asks him, "What do you love to do more than anything else? You couldn't have always wanted to be an evil henchman." Jeremy responds as the injured guard with a fresh Southern speech impediment, "I loved to carve soap. Animals. Out of soap."

As the rest of us giggle about soap, Elwin commands the guard to go home and change his life. He will return to the village in one month, and if the guard is not happily carving soap, Elwin will kill him. Wasn't this a scene in "Fight Club"?

Having tasted battle, we begin our journey to seek guidance from a local druid. We find him waiting in a copse, deep in the forest. "I knew I smelled change in the wind," Jeremy wheezes. "I am Reithan the Druid, the keeper of this grove."

As Reithan tells us of the violent bullywugs that terrorize the land, I study my character's hit points and abilities. These bullywugs sound hard-core, but I'm ready to do some damage. But just after Reithan suggests that we seek the aid of Mothra, the giant Japanese dragonfly, our Dungeon Master brings the game to an abrupt close. Osmo and Ariadne have kids, and it's a school night.

I've since been asked to be an official substitute for the guild, and I'm considering starting a game of my own. I'm inexperienced, but I've got the taste for it now. And I've grown to appreciate that there is no place for irony in D&D. It's a game meant to be played with earnest imagination. Whenever I walk by Universe Games on Lake Street now and see a huddle of seasoned players immersed in an after-hours game, I think to myself, "I totally get those guys."